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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26917984">ties that bind</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/astxrwar/pseuds/astxrwar'>astxrwar</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Teachers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, beck is a massive kinda manipulative asshole in this so, ex-student/teacher?, fair warning, kinda student/teacher but not really</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 01:08:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,260</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26917984</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/astxrwar/pseuds/astxrwar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s <i>Quentin Beck.</i> He’s your fucking <i>high school civics teacher,</i> for fuck’s sake, his most popular review on <i>ratemyprofessors</i> explicitly involves the words “narcissist”, “asshole” and “smug fucking bastard” and it’s <i>not an exaggeration<i>. You fucking hate him, and you’re not about to forget it just because he smells good and is standing too close and is looking at you like <i>that.</i></i></i><br/><i>Fuck</i>, you think, the only coherent thought you’re really capable of.</p><p>OR: Quentin Beck is a bastard. Apparently, you're kind of in to that.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Quentin Beck/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>110</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. poison</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I'm posting this as a multi-parter because it's getting Long. This also isn't... like... the best thing I've ever written but i'm Trying Very Hard to get back into the habit of writing often, and editing this more is just going to give me a headache, so. The part in the summary also doesn't happen till next chapter, which may or may not qualify as false advertising. whoops.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>For four long, </span>
  <em>
    <span>painful </span>
  </em>
  <span>years of high school, Mr. Beck— the notoriously demanding civics teacher at Stark Tech who actually, </span>
  <em>
    <span>unironically </span>
  </em>
  <span>referred to himself as a “devil’s advocate” like it was something to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>proud</span>
  </em>
  <span> of— was an </span>
  <em>
    <span>asshole. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>To be fair, he was an asshole to everyone. He made no real distinction or exception based on any one characteristic in particular, so he was more of just a general menace than, like, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>bigot</span>
  </em>
  <span>, or something, but-- </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still.</span>
</p><p><em><span>Still</span></em><span>, though. The guy was a </span><em><span>teacher</span></em><span>. At a </span><em><span>high school. </span></em><span>He was something of an authority figure to just about every single acne-stricken, hormone-riddled adolescent confined to the halls of Stark Tech, and for some reason completely unbeknownst to anyone, he was a </span><em><span>massive</span></em> <em><span>dick. </span></em><span>All the time, too, like was his goddamn </span><em><span>job— </span></em><span>like he was getting </span><em><span>paid </span></em><span>for it. Like parents were only shelling out the school’s stupid-high tuition because of his impressive ability to find new and inventive ways to ridicule their children.</span></p><p><span>It’s not as if no one had ever tried to do anything about it, either. You’re certain that Mr. Stark must have fielded dozens of phone calls from personally-affronted parents complaining about Beck-- that he must have received letters and notices and a whole host of official complaints just within the four years you’d spent there, but nothing ever came of it. Nothing </span><em><span>changed, </span></em><span>because Beck knew what he was doing. More importantly, he knew how to </span><em><span>get away with it</span></em><span>.</span> <span>Beck made a point of repeatedly, </span><em><span>purposefully </span></em><span>toeing the line of appropriate behavior, but he was always very careful never to cross it, staying just shy of doing anything that could warrant actual retribution. It was fucking </span><em><span>annoying. </span></em></p><p>
  <span>And yes, maybe it was just a teensy, </span>
  <em>
    <span>tiny</span>
  </em>
  <span> bit personal. Because Beck was an </span>
  <em>
    <span>asshole, </span>
  </em>
  <span>yes, but he was an asshole to everyone-- indiscriminately, possibly unintentionally, and yet still without fail. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, towards you in particular, he was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>bastard.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>You could have probably learned to disregard him, even potentially </span>
  <em>
    <span>tolerated </span>
  </em>
  <span>him, if it wasn’t for that. His general attitude could have been chalked up to a particularly </span>
  <em>
    <span>irritating </span>
  </em>
  <span>case of entitlement on his part, and you could have carried on your merry way, if it wasn’t for his seemingly </span>
  <em>
    <span>endless </span>
  </em>
  <span>fascination with pushing and prodding and </span>
  <em>
    <span>needling </span>
  </em>
  <span>at you like he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>trying, </span>
  </em>
  <span>on </span>
  <em>
    <span>purpose, </span>
  </em>
  <span>to piss you off. You could have put up with him if it wasn’t for the back-handed compliments, or the completely arbitrary punishments for rules he didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever </span>
  </em>
  <span>hold anyone else to, or even the fucking way that he</span>
  <em>
    <span> talked </span>
  </em>
  <span>to you-- and </span>
  <em>
    <span>only </span>
  </em>
  <span>you, always with that condescending, obnoxious </span>
  <em>
    <span>edge </span>
  </em>
  <span>to his voice that you hated. If it wasn’t for how he’d fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>pick on you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>then maybe—</span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe—</span>
  </em>
  <span> you might have ignored it. Maybe then, if it wasn’t for that— because that’s what it was, honestly, without any of the fancy terminology to hide behind, that’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly </span>
  </em>
  <span>what it was when you stripped away his title and the setting and the </span>
  <em>
    <span>absurdity </span>
  </em>
  <span>of it all. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>picked </span>
  </em>
  <span>on you. Mr. Beck was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>bully. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He was thirty-eight years old, had a car and a house and a job and a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>mortgage, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and for some reason he got off on fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>bullying </span>
  </em>
  <span>teenagers. And because of that--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because of that, you couldn’t fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>stand </span>
  </em>
  <span>him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a hundred and eighty-two days, you put up with this. For a </span>
  <em>
    <span>hundred and eighty-two days, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you bit your tongue and curbed your attitude and kept a strenuous, </span>
  <em>
    <span>stubborn</span>
  </em>
  <span> hold on the lid of your frustration</span>
  <em>
    <span>, </span>
  </em>
  <span>despite your ever-deepening resentment and despite Mr. Beck’s near-constant attempts to incite you. You graduated— </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally— </span>
  </em>
  <span> and went on to accept a full ride to college, to pursue a degree in chemical engineering, and to resolutely never think about Quentin Beck ever again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In an ideal world, that would have been the end of it. You would have been rid of him. Permanently. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Forever. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Except—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Because this isn’t an ideal world, and because there are always exceptions.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except Dr. Banner— the fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>saint </span>
  </em>
  <span>of a chemistry teacher that you’d loved for the entirety of your time there— offers you a part-time student teaching position at Stark Tech during your sophomore year, and you say </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>In your defense, you had basically fucking forgotten Beck even existed. You hadn’t afforded him so much as a thought since you were fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>seventeen. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He hadn’t crossed your mind in the slightest since the moment you laid hands on your high-school diploma, so looking up from a haphazard pile of half-finished syllabus packets six days before the start of the school year to see him, rounding the corner of the lab with that same stupid smug fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>look </span>
  </em>
  <span>on his stupid smug fucking face—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re not prepared.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re not </span>
  <em>
    <span>ready</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your guard is down and your balance is off and when he locks eyes with you from the shadow of the doorway, you feel-- suddenly, </span>
  <em>
    <span>inexplicably-- </span>
  </em>
  <span>like a deer caught in the headlights of a rapidly-approaching car. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, actually, something much larger than that. Much more </span>
  <em>
    <span>inescapable. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Like</span>
  <em>
    <span>--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Like a bus.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>semi truck.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Shit.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“(Name),” Beck says, pleasant, maybe even </span>
  <em>
    <span>pleased, </span>
  </em>
  <span>his tone both far too familiar and far too </span>
  <em>
    <span>appreciative.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>You grit your teeth so hard you’re sure you can hear the enamel squeak. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    
  </b>
  <span>“Mr. Beck,” is all you manage to say, forcing a flimsy smile. “Hi.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “I heard a rumor you were back.” He sounds amused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, well.” You cough. Clear your throat. “I am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just thought I’d stop and say hi,” he says, stepping past the shadow of the doorway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even at this distance, it’s not hard to read between the lines of his expression. His smile is warm, and wide, and disarmingly </span>
  <em>
    <span>gentle, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but there’s something not quite right about his eyes— a cocky and manipulative glint to them that you’d very nearly managed to erase from your memory. It’s embarrassing, you think, how quickly your gut burns with that familiar frustration in response; like you’d never left, like you hadn’t grown up and gotten over this and like absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing </span>
  </em>
  <span>had changed between you. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” you reply. “Oh. Um. Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re rapidly becoming uncomfortable, and you’re certain he can tell. He takes a step closer; his hands are tucked into his pants pockets and his mouth is twitching up at one corner-- you wonder if he’s fighting the urge to laugh. Like there’s something funny, somewhere in the tense space between the two of you or in the oppressive silence, a joke you’re missing out on that’s probably at your expense. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought is </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>fucking aggravating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Been a while,” he drawls finally. “Missed it here, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not really.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You stare at your desk, and chew on the inside of your cheek, your expression likely bordering on mutinous. Beck is so relaxed that it’s almost distracting to look at. You wish you could get under his skin the way he does to you; just once, honestly, that would be enough, just for the </span>
  <em>
    <span>satisfaction, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and maybe then whatever residual reaction the man managed to incite in you would disappear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re, what, a junior in college now?” he continues, leaning a little closer, looking right at you—looking right </span>
  <em>
    <span>through </span>
  </em>
  <span>you with a mocking intensity that makes you want to hit him in his stupid fucking face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” you reply, choking back the surge of something-- irritation, anticipation, both, maybe, or neither-- burning its way up the back of your throat. You’re antsy, suddenly, </span>
  <em>
    <span>agitated, </span>
  </em>
  <span>fighting back the desire to shift in your chair or stretch your arms or do something to alleviate the sudden tension you feel in every fibre of your muscles, but you don’t know why. “I’ll— uh, I’ll be a junior when fall semester starts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good for you.” He smiles. It’s warm, but it still feels wrong. There’s always been something just a little too shrewd— too </span>
  <em>
    <span>calculated— </span>
  </em>
  <span>in his expression, and apparently time hasn’t made you immune to </span>
  <em>
    <span>that, </span>
  </em>
  <span>either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>An uncomfortable, uncertain silence falls, and as the seconds slide slowly by it solidifies into a tangible buzz of energy that hovers heavy in the space between you. It sticks to your skin, raises the hairs on the back of your neck-- it’s suffocating, but you can’t for the life of you think of anything you’d even want to say to break it, besides a deeply heartfelt </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence drags on. You shift your gaze to the windows, the thick amber beam of late-afternoon sunlight seeping in through the dusty glass, and then to the crooked row of desks behind him. His presence in the room is like a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>itch </span>
  </em>
  <span>at the corners of your peripheral vision, like sand caught behind your eyelids. When you finally look up, he’s watching you again-- you had forgotten how much you hated this. Being pinned beneath the steady, pinpoint-precise pressure of his stare makes you feel like a specimen trapped beneath the lens of a microscope; like Beck wants to pull you apart and study the pieces and figure out what makes you </span>
  <em>
    <span>tick. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Somewhere in the back of your mind, the memory of the time he made you cry in front of your entire Civics class junior year plays on a loop like a foggy, muted film reel from the 60’s, too vague for any of the details to really come into focus. You try to remember the way he used to look at you back then— try to remember if it’s the same way he’s looking at you now or if something was different, if something had </span>
  <em>
    <span>changed</span>
  </em>
  <span>, something significant but unnameable that you can’t quite manage to figure out.</span>
</p><p><span>He’s still staring at you. LIke he’s-- like he’s fucking </span><em><span>sizing you up, </span></em><span>or something.</span> <span>You still haven’t looked away. </span></p><p>
  <span>You can’t tell, not exactly, what’s so different this time, but the specifics don’t really even matter. Because something, you know, deep down-- something is happening right now that shouldn’t be. And maybe you can’t put your finger on the specifics of it or figure out exactly where this whole thing went wrong, but it must have, in a way that you can </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel, </span>
  </em>
  <span>like a lit fuse sparking nervous friction somewhere along the base of your spine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not even doing anything. Just standing there, and you’re still on edge. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t let this happen, </span>
  </em>
  <span>a part of your brain practically yells, </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t let him do this to you, don’t let him push your buttons-- </span>
  </em>
  <span>but it’s not like you’ve ever been able to stop him before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s really been three years, huh?” Beck says casually-- too casually, you realize, not even certain of how you know that, only that you do. His voice, you notice, is lower and </span>
  <em>
    <span>softer </span>
  </em>
  <span>than it had been before, almost a whisper, and this time the change is noticeable. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Obvious.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He’s still watching you. Staring. You swallow helplessly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” you say, slower than you meant to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s that too-familiar smugness in his expression, the slyly knowing look in his eyes like he’s aware of something you haven’t quite figured out yet, and it’s just as fucking frustrating now as it was three years ago. The smile he gives you this time is completely intentional, full and teeth-showing and wide as he steps closer, steps </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> close, past the point of explanation or excuse, until you have to tip your head back to look at him from where you’re sitting— he’s not as tall as you’d remembered, you realize suddenly, not as tall as he had seemed when you were sixteen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t have to be in order to seem intimidating, apparently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’d be about twenty, now, right, honey?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your skin does something weird at the sound of the nickname-- you want to say it fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>crawls, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but you’re not sure. There’s a flash of movement in your periphery— he’s toying with the button of his shirt-sleeve, folding the cuff up to his forearm. You’re watching. You shouldn’t be watching, you know that, even if you don’t know </span>
  <em>
    <span>why.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will be,” you reply, and your voice does something strange-- it gets softer, maybe, or lighter, it sounds </span>
  <em>
    <span>different </span>
  </em>
  <span>even to your own ears, remarkably plaintive and lacking in any sort of venom and-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>what the fuck is happening?</span>
  </em>
  <span> “This fall.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nineteen, then.” Beck methodically presses the crease of his sleeve between his thumb and forefinger. You aren’t looking at the tan, muscular expanse of his forearm where his shirt has been folded up, not exactly, but you can see it lingering at the edges of your periphery as he starts on the other sleeve, movements methodical and precise. The only reason you aren’t actively </span>
  <em>
    <span>watching </span>
  </em>
  <span>is because you refuse to, and that’s--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Worse. Somehow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You can’t focus. You can’t fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>think. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>You register that he’s speaking before you actually register the words. You register several things before the words, actually. You register that his voice is quiet and rumbling low in his chest and that there’s something almost-not-quite sinister about it— no, not sinister, it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>suggestive, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he’s—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look good, (Name),” is what he says--is </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly </span>
  </em>
  <span>what he says, word for word, so easily that if you hadn’t known the type of person he was you would have passed it off as a compliment. Would have been </span>
  <em>
    <span>pleased. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“I’m glad we got to see each other again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Holy shit.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>What the hell?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was good to see you too,” you say automatically. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a lie. You know it’s a lie, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> knows it’s a lie, so you kind of wonder why you even bother. </span>
</p><p><span>You know the answer. You’ve figured it out by now. There’s a flush of heat suffusing your face, your cheeks and your nose, maybe even the hollow of your neck between your collarbones, and you can’t remember feeling this uncomfortable or this viciously off-balance since you were a kid and still fucking </span><em><span>scared </span></em><span>of him. You’re not scared of anyone, not anymore, but this feeling in the space where your stomach had been before it had plummeted like a stone to your feet-- it’s almost the same. Like you’re in high school again, about to say something stupid, about to freeze or fall or </span><em><span>fuck up</span></em><span>, stumbling off of that jagged cliff-edge of impulse and irrationality with no chance of holding yourself back. </span><em><span><br/>
</span></em> <span>You swallow, and Mr. Beck’s eyes finally leave yours, following the movement of your throat. His mouth twitches again. Just a little. It’s not a smile, you decide, not really. It’s a secret.</span></p><p>
  <span>“It’ll be nice to have you back,” he says, somehow still managing to sound conversational. There’s a note of finality to the words, and when he finally turns as if to leave, you let yourself exhale, your chest bursting with the pressure of the breath you hadn’t even realized you were holding. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beck pauses for a split second in the shadow of the doorway. “I’ll see you around, honey,” he says, and it sounds like a </span>
  <em>
    <span>threat.  </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He gives you one last lingering not-smile before leaving, and you try—you really, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>try—not to shiver.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But you do. </span>
</p><p><span>And you’re certain— you </span><em><span>know—</span></em><span>that</span> <span>he could tell.</span></p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The rest of the day does not pass quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rest of the day is just tedious and just inconsequential and just </span>
  <em>
    <span>meaningless </span>
  </em>
  <span>enough to grate on whatever remains of your nerves. It feels like your head’s not screwed on straight, feels like you’ve been forcibly dunked underwater, and you’re--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>over </span>
  </em>
  <span>it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The third time Dr. Banner asks you if something’s wrong, you have to actually, </span>
  <em>
    <span>physically </span>
  </em>
  <span>hold back a scream.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Goddamn </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>Beck, </em>
  </b>
  <span>you think to yourself later, when you’re finally home and two glasses into what had previously been an unopened bottle of vodka. In front of you, the artificially-bright screen of your laptop blurs into a solid block of white in your vision as you debate hitting </span>
  <em>
    <span>send </span>
  </em>
  <span>on the bullshit resignation email you’d drafted up to Banner on half-drunk impulse. The bitter, burning ache of anger that had followed you after your encounter with Beck that morning— followed you out the front door and to the parking lot and all the way home, aching like a bruise right above your sternum-- it throbs like a second heartbeat as you stare at the words swimming in front of you, your finger hovering over the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Enter </span>
  </em>
  <span>button. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You don’t want to press it, not really, but--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You also kind of do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is a good opportunity, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>that, you know having teaching history at Stark Tech not two years after graduating is basically the equivalent of having the key to </span>
  <em>
    <span>every single door </span>
  </em>
  <span>you would ever encounter during your career, but-- </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But it would also mean interacting with Beck on a regular basis. Nevermind the fact that the fucking History department is technically in a different hall than the science labs, because you’re certain he’d find some sort of excuse to fucking harrass you. Or maybe he wouldn’t-- maybe he wouldn’t even bother; it’s not like he ever needed a </span>
  <em>
    <span>reason </span>
  </em>
  <span>to before. And you’re not— stronger, or anything, or </span>
  <em>
    <span>better, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you haven’t in the last three years found the </span>
  <em>
    <span>ability </span>
  </em>
  <span>to just fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>take</span>
  </em>
  <span> it, not when it comes from him. No, for some inexplicable, </span>
  <em>
    <span>unfathomable </span>
  </em>
  <span>reason, your self-control simply didn’t extend that far; it couldn’t withstand his grating, oddly specific way of getting on your nerves, apparently even if it means your fucking internship. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You sigh, and slump back against your chair, hitting </span>
  <em>
    <span>save draft </span>
  </em>
  <span>on the email.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You do not like him. You can’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>stand </span>
  </em>
  <span>him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But you can </span>
  <em>
    <span>tolerate </span>
  </em>
  <span>him, for this. You’ll have to.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you think, draining what was left of the glass you’d poured for yourself and shutting your laptop with a deeply heartfelt sigh. </span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>For better or for worse, you don’t actually end up quitting the internship. Summer ends-- abruptly, suddenly, and far too soon-- and you find yourself back in the halls of Stark Tech for the next four months.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first few days are—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re fine. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Normal. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Suspiciously so. You’re so busy with trying to get the class up and running in something even vaguely resembling an organized fashion that you don’t have any real free time to speak of, much less the spare brainpower to afford Beck even a thought, and he remains curiously</span>
  <em>
    <span> absent</span>
  </em>
  <span> from your immediate life. Eventually things become almost normal, morphing into a semi-steady routine as the weeks wear on; for a while, balancing the student-teaching with your regular semester’s worth of courses is only getting easier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, suddenly, seemingly for no reason at all, it gets a lot fucking harder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You start to run into Beck in the mornings before class. He’s always his particularly </span>
  <em>
    <span>sleazy </span>
  </em>
  <span>brand of charming, always avoids saying anything outright inappropriate, so it’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>unbearable. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Not at first. At first, it’s just a brief </span>
  <em>
    <span>hello </span>
  </em>
  <span>and the occasional small talk; a handful of seconds here and there every couple of days. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, suddenly, it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>every</span>
  </em>
  <span> day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then it’s every</span>
  <em>
    <span>where</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Printing copies for class, making coffee in the mornings, getting rulers or spare textbooks or pencils or </span>
  <em>
    <span>literally anything</span>
  </em>
  <span>— he’s always there with his stupid cocky smile and a steady supply of just-shy-of-backhanded compliments. So naturally— </span>
  <em>
    <span>stubbornly— </span>
  </em>
  <span>you begin to avoid those places as much as possible. The printing room, the break room, the supply closet; you confine yourself to Banner’s lab for the extent of your time at Stark Tech, but there are certain tasks that you can’t avoid and somehow he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>always </span>
  </em>
  <span>there, always has something arrogant and obnoxious and vaguely insulting to say, always watches you for a second too long, stands just a half an inch too close. It’s on purpose, and you </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>that, because it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>always </span>
  </em>
  <span>been on purpose, but—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s like it was on the first day. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>different. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You see him down the hallway and your stomach </span>
  <em>
    <span>jolts </span>
  </em>
  <span>like it’s been fed a live wire, a lurching, free-fall sensation that isn’t uncomfortable but definitely isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>comfortable</span>
  </em>
  <span>, either, just strange enough that you genuinely don’t know what to make of it— it’s new and it’s not-new and it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>exhausting, </span>
  </em>
  <span>day after day, playing this </span>
  <em>
    <span>game. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Because that’s what it is to him-- it’s a game. You know that. You manage to avoid him in the cafeteria line, he corners you in the stairwell; you string up a pathetic excuse to grade papers instead of mingling before first bell, and he somehow manages to catch you in the parking lot before you can even get into the building. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some time in late October you finally manage to snag a copy of his class schedule, and you make sure to organize your day so that you’re unapproachable during every single possible minute of his free time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For two blessedly peaceful weeks, you don’t see Beck once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next Monday, you walk into the teacher’s lounge during your lunch break to find him sitting at your table. Sitting in your </span>
  <em>
    <span>spot.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t eat lunch in the fucking teachers’ lounge. He has it in his classroom, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>always </span>
  </em>
  <span>does, every single day for the past two months, </span>
  <em>
    <span>every single day </span>
  </em>
  <span>for the entirety of your high school career, and even if— </span>
  <em>
    <span>impossibly— </span>
  </em>
  <span>he had suddenly decided completely separate from you to fucking mingle with the rest of the staff, he’s in your fucking chair</span>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>How did he even fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>it was your chair?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not the </span>
  <em>
    <span>only </span>
  </em>
  <span>table— far from it—so this is like someone who’s essentially a </span>
  <em>
    <span>nemesis </span>
  </em>
  <span>pulling up right next to you in an otherwise-vacant lot or taking the seat next to you in an empty theater or standing close enough to </span>
  <em>
    <span>literally </span>
  </em>
  <span>breathe down your neck in line at the ATM—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s inappropriate. It’s uncomfortable. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>infuriating. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s been a </span>
  <em>
    <span>long </span>
  </em>
  <span>fucking week, you’re already agitated and overworked and </span>
  <em>
    <span>exhausted</span>
  </em>
  <span> between this and the full course load you’re barely balancing on top of it; finals for you </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>for the kids are on the horizon and at the moment you’re operating on a combination of four-hour’s sleep, three large coffees and sheer fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>spite, </span>
  </em>
  <span>which is to say that you are not currently equipped to handle this situation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which is to say that you handle it </span>
  <em>
    <span>poorly. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Which is to say your reaction to this— to </span>
  <em>
    <span>him, </span>
  </em>
  <span>at your table, in your </span>
  <em>
    <span>spot, </span>
  </em>
  <span>his feet up on your chair and a half-eaten bag of </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>pistachios torn open in front of him—is visceral and obvious and etched into every facet of your expression and that Beck, like always, can </span>
  <em>
    <span>tell. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s barely a change in his demeanor, just a shift of his posture and a twitch of his mouth and this </span>
  <em>
    <span>look, </span>
  </em>
  <span>an infuriating combination of condescension and calculation and cruel, vindictive </span>
  <em>
    <span>enjoyment </span>
  </em>
  <span>written into the all-too-familiar minutiae of his expression—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“(Name),” he says, feigning surprise, and you want to fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>scream. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Haven’t seen you in a while, honey. Been busy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think to yourself angrily— or maybe it’s not anger, it’s something else, or maybe the two are mixed together; your familiar tangible frustration and that new thing that you still couldn’t name. There are other teachers in the room, engaging in a low hum of casual conversation; he’s not the only one watching you but you can still feel his gaze the most intensely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the table, he smiles, or maybe he just bares his teeth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a heavy, suffocating beat of silence. Like he’s waiting. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Anticipating. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Daring you to say something— call him out, or yell, or cry the same bitter, frustrated tears you used to in high school. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like he’s daring you to do anything at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You hesitate for the barest fraction of a second—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You want to yell. You want to </span>
  <em>
    <span>scream.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>You don’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You take a deep breath, turn around, and head stubbornly in the opposite direction; headed nowhere in particular, headed </span>
  <em>
    <span>anywhere, </span>
  </em>
  <span>as long as it was away from him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not the smartest thing you’ve ever done, certainly not the bravest, and maybe you’re losing the game by admitting that he fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>gets </span>
  </em>
  <span>to you, but you don’t care. You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>past </span>
  </em>
  <span>caring. You’re not a fucking teenager and he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>not a teenager and this— whatever it is— it needs to stop. It shouldn’t have started in the first place. But it had, and it would continue, unless—</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Unless—</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Unless you </span>
  <em>
    <span>ended </span>
  </em>
  <span>it.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. antidote</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Is this the best thing i've ever written? no. Am i going to proofread this any more? No. will I edit it later? probably. anyway here you go chapter 2 by 10/16 as promised</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s Friday. Last day of school before class lets out for Thanksgiving break. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You are sitting in Beck’s classroom-- at his desk and in his chair, because you’re nothing if not petty-- and have been for the last twenty-seven minutes. Lunch should be ending soon, you know, and when he gets back there’s a solid hour-long window where he doesn’t have class, and you fully intend to take advantage of that. That’s not to say that you have a </span>
  <em>
    <span>plan--</span>
  </em>
  <span> that would require some degree of critical thinking, which you haven’t had the time or the energy to engage in for the last three fucking months. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You just wanted to get him to leave you alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>God</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you think, registering the dull prickle of frustration somewhere in your lower abdomen as you drum your fingers impatiently against his desk, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I should have just turned down this fucking stupid internship, would probably be better off if I--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Across the classroom, the doorknob clicks, and your thought process skips-stammers-</span>
  <em>
    <span>stalls </span>
  </em>
  <span>like a scratched-up CD. Your pulse quickens, and something else happens too-- something low in your stomach striking up like somebody’s lit a match.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door opens. Beck steps into the classroom--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He zeroes in on you with a startling, almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>predatory </span>
  </em>
  <span>efficiency.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s miniscule, it’s nearly </span>
  <em>
    <span>negligible, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the shift in his posture and his rapid, shallow intake of breath, but you notice anyway. You notice because you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>looking </span>
  </em>
  <span>for it. Cataloguing the half-smirk slant of his mouth and the subtle twitch of his eyebrow like he’s surprised— genuinely, even </span>
  <em>
    <span>pleasantly— </span>
  </em>
  <span>to see you sitting there, at his desk, in his </span>
  <em>
    <span>chair</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles. You don’t smile back. Your mouth is dry, and your pulse is </span>
  <em>
    <span>racing. </span>
  </em>
  <span>This— the situation, your </span>
  <em>
    <span>reaction</span>
  </em>
  <span>, everything, </span>
  <em>
    <span>all of it-- </span>
  </em>
  <span>is suddenly too much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, this was a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>bad idea, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you realize, because even just </span>
  <em>
    <span>looking </span>
  </em>
  <span>at him is pissing you off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a tense beat of silence that’s laced with the same thread of tension that’s followed you for the last six fucking years, and you want to pull it until it </span>
  <em>
    <span>snaps.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He opens his mouth to speak--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You cut him off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck is your </span>
  <em>
    <span>problem </span>
  </em>
  <span>with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re on your feet without thinking about standing up, or even really meaning to in the first place— the action is  instinctive and </span>
  <em>
    <span>instantaneous </span>
  </em>
  <span>and fueled by the sheer force of your rapidly-mounting frustration. The same frustration that you’d tamped down and drowned out and </span>
  <em>
    <span>held on to, </span>
  </em>
  <span>for </span>
  <em>
    <span>years, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the same frustration that he’d taken such fucking shameless </span>
  <em>
    <span>delight </span>
  </em>
  <span>in provoking since before you were old enough to even </span>
  <em>
    <span>know better— </span>
  </em>
  <span>it comes to a head, suddenly, all of it, building pressure in your chest like hot steam. All your anger, all the months of what was basically just cleverly-disguised </span>
  <em>
    <span>harassment </span>
  </em>
  <span>and all the times you’d fucking held your tongue even when every single goddamn </span>
  <em>
    <span>cell </span>
  </em>
  <span>of your body was </span>
  <em>
    <span>burning </span>
  </em>
  <span>with how badly you wanted to tell him to </span>
  <em>
    <span>shut the fuck up, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Beck--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>laughs.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs, and the sound is loud and bright and clear, echoing around the open, high-ceilinged space of the otherwise-empty classroom. He laughs— and it’s fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>innappropriate, </span>
  </em>
  <span>yes, even if it’s not exactly unexpected, but there’s still somehow something </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong </span>
  </em>
  <span>about it, something strange in the shift of his posture and the corresponding change in the atmosphere that catches you off-guard enough that it snuffs out your anger for a moment. It strikes you, with a strange amount of clarity and a not-insignificant prickle of uncertainty, that this might actually not be as easy as you thought it would be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beck laughs, but it’s what he does after that actually matters: he shuts the classroom door. Maybe he locks it, too, just for good measure, but maybe he doesn’t-- maybe you just imagine it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a fraction of a second of silence that’s laced so heavily with anticipation you can almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>taste </span>
  </em>
  <span>it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what you’re talking about, honey,” he drawls, slow and saccharine, pushing one of his dress-shirt sleeves up to his elbow and smiling wide like he knows something that you don’t or like he has you fucking cornered</span>
  <em>
    <span>, </span>
  </em>
  <span>outgunned and </span>
  <em>
    <span>outsmarted. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Maybe, you think, not quite able to silence that earlier sense of uncertainty— maybe he’s right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve been </span>
  <em>
    <span>following</span>
  </em>
  <span> me,” you say anyways, rounding the corner of his desk and taking an aborted half-step in his direction. “You-- you’ve practically been </span>
  <em>
    <span>harassing me.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And why would I do that?” He’s too fucking calm. Too </span>
  <em>
    <span>smug. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Patiently-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>pointedly--</span>
  </em>
  <span>he folds up his other sleeve, his disinterest so perfectly feigned that if it weren’t for the veritable </span>
  <em>
    <span>cacophony </span>
  </em>
  <span>of alarm bells currently ringing in your head, you might have been able to believe that you had imagined it. All of it. Everything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” you snap back, before the more logical part of you can consider the fact that admitting that might not be the best idea you’ve ever had. “I don’t, okay? I don’t know what your problem is, which is why I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>asking, </span>
  </em>
  <span>so--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs, again, and this time it’s warmer, it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>darker, </span>
  </em>
  <span>treacherously so, and you-- </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You aren’t expecting that. You don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> it. Not at all. In all honesty, none of this confrontation-- if you could even call it that-- had unfolded like you had expected to, and you’re starting to wonder if that should be a cause for actual, genuine concern.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t have a problem with you.” He moves closer; you want to take a step back, but you don’t, or can’t</span>
  <em>
    <span>, </span>
  </em>
  <span>stubbornness rooting you firmly in place</span>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> you, honey. I’m trying to </span>
  <em>
    <span>help </span>
  </em>
  <span>you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, it’s your own laughter that echoes up to fill the wide, impossible space between the two of you. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>How</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“By teaching you a </span>
  <em>
    <span>lesson,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Beck continues, patient and vaguely condescending— like it should have been </span>
  <em>
    <span>obvious.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Sweetheart-- Your </span>
  <em>
    <span>whole life </span>
  </em>
  <span>is going to be filled with people that are going to piss you off. You need to figure out how to handle it. I’m doing you a </span>
  <em>
    <span>favor</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>flatter yourself, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you’re not—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cuts you off before the words can even make it halfway out of your mouth. “Obviously it’s a lesson you need to learn, honey, since you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>still here.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>You blink. Swallow. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stare </span>
  </em>
  <span>at him, every inch of your body prickling with fury and wordless disbelief. You want to speak— </span>
  <em>
    <span>really, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you do, there are about a thousand equally cutting remarks you could make, a thousand equally </span>
  <em>
    <span>devastating </span>
  </em>
  <span>holes you could poke in his flimsy excuse for what’s basically at this point become unadulterated </span>
  <em>
    <span>harassment, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but it’s like your brain isn’t working. Like everything’s getting jumbled up and lost in translation somewhere between your head and your mouth, and the only thing you’re aware of— the only thing you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>certain </span>
  </em>
  <span>of, right now, the one thing you know for sure— is that you are still, somehow, </span>
  <em>
    <span>missing something. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Some important, essential, </span>
  <em>
    <span>elusive </span>
  </em>
  <span>variable that you still haven’t been able to figure out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So either you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>really just that stupid—“ </span>
  </em>
  <span>He rounds a desk, comes even closer, and the smile twisting his face is suddenly bordering on a full-blown sneer. “—or there’s some other reason why you’re here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words hang heavy and ominous in the charged air between the two of you, and there’s a note of finality— of </span>
  <em>
    <span>certainty</span>
  </em>
  <span>— to them that makes your stomach twist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not here to engage in your stupid pissing contest, if that’s what you’re asking,” you say finally, swallowing past the buzzing bundle of nerves pressing against the hollow of your throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beck takes another step. Just one, but that’s all he really needs to do— you hadn’t noticed, in your anger, how quickly the distance between the two of you had dwindled, just how impossibly, </span>
  <em>
    <span>inappropriately </span>
  </em>
  <span>small it had become. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then why are you here?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s a good fucking question.</span>
</p><p><span>You don’t answer. You can’t </span><em><span>think. </span></em><span>He’s so fucking close, and you can’t seem to remember how you had let that happen, but now that you’ve noticed it’s all that you can think about. He’s </span><em><span>too </span></em><span>close— you can see the shadow of a scar where it lances through his left eyebrow, the precise curve of his mouth, twisted into that stupid fucking self-assured smile that you despise so goddamn much. His eyes</span><em><span>, </span></em><span>from here, are</span> <span>narrowed and calculating, a sliver of blue around the endless black of his irises, blown out like fucking </span><em><span>planets.</span></em><span> This close you can even smell him, and god if that isn’t the fucking </span><em><span>worst; </span></em><span>a smell like new-car leather and aftershave and peppermint and something else, too, something </span><em><span>expensive, </span></em><span>something dark and sweet and heady that borders on indescribable— something you couldn’t begin to find the words for even if you wanted to. Something that makes your breath catch and pulse stutter, your body flood with adrenaline and your mouth flood with saliva and your head flood with thoughts that you absolutely </span><em><span>should not </span></em><span>be having, not here and not now and not under any circumstances about </span><em><span>him—</span></em></p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, no, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think to yourself, the words tinged with dawning realization and something rapidly approaching panic. </span>
  <b>
    <em>Don’t.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Quentin Beck</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He’s your fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>high school civics teacher, </span>
  </em>
  <span>for fuck’s sake, his most popular review on </span>
  <em>
    <span>ratemyprofessors </span>
  </em>
  <span>explicitly involves the words “narcissist”, “asshole” and “smug fucking bastard” and it’s</span>
  <em>
    <span> not an exaggeration.</span>
  </em>
  <span> You fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>hate </span>
  </em>
  <span>him, and you’re not about to forget it just because he smells good and is standing too close and is looking at you like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think, the only coherent thought you’re really capable of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Absently, </span>
  <em>
    <span>distantly, </span>
  </em>
  <span>like you’ve got your head underwater or like you’re half the fucking world away, you can hear yourself begin to speak—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why won’t you just leave me alone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It comes out soft, and quiet, and you kind of wish you’d been able to drum up some degree of conviction, but you know it wouldn’t have mattered either way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beck laughs again. This one is different, softer and lower and </span>
  <em>
    <span>smoother, </span>
  </em>
  <span>like thunder in the summertime, right around sunset, right around the time when the air’s thrumming with electricity, when the light’s getting low and inhibitions are getting lower— that moment just before bad decisions are made. The treacherous, impossible second before something has to snap or give or </span>
  <em>
    <span>break</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You already know why.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No--</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s that feeling again. That same one you always get, the one that maybe, you realize, has always been a little too warm and a little too </span>
  <em>
    <span>good </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be just anger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>you reply, but your voice </span>
  <em>
    <span>cracks</span>
  </em>
  <span> on the last word, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>shatters, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and--</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Beck’s smirking like he’s just won the entire goddamn lottery-- like he’s taken over the fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>world— </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he’s taking that last, single, solitary half-step closer and if his laugh was thunder, then the sliver of remaining space between the two of you is the lightning. That  space between the two of you is charged and electric and somehow simultaneously too-far and </span>
  <em>
    <span>not nearly fucking far enough.  </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The space between the two of you is everything, and nothing, and it’s getting smaller.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And smaller.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And </span>
  <em>
    <span>smaller.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Until he’s so close that you would be able to see the fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>lint </span>
  </em>
  <span>on his shirt if there was any. Until you could see the flaws if there were any to speak of, until if you fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>breathed wrong </span>
  </em>
  <span>you might touch him— until you’re close enough that there’s absolutely no rational explanation or excuse for it. There’s certainly no explaining away the fluttering, trembling </span>
  <em>
    <span>twist </span>
  </em>
  <span>of your stomach, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>tension, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the fact that you aren’t moving back-- because it was never just anger that you were feeling, was it? And you knew that. You must have.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, honey,” he says, then, barely a whisper but still somehow louder than anything else in the room-- the ticking clock, your shallow, rapid breathing, the too-fast skipping rhythm of your heartbeat in your throat. “I think you do know why.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you want to say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t, I don’t know, how could I possibly--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He reaches for you and whatever thoughts you had in your head short-circuit, but you don’t move. You stand, stock-still, as he tips your chin up with his thumb and forefinger— just briefly, just </span>
  <em>
    <span>gently, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the barest millisecond of contact, enough to force you to look up at him and enough to emphasize that he wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>making </span>
  </em>
  <span>you move. That you were the one allowing this to happen, that at any moment you could turn and leave and that, of course, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>wouldn’t. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>You realize, maybe just a little too late, what’s going to happen next. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before you can make sense of any of it— before you can think or speak or move or even </span>
  <em>
    <span>breathe, </span>
  </em>
  <span>that last sliver of space is gone. He kisses you, and it’s not particularly sweet or nice or even </span>
  <em>
    <span>gentle, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but there’s this immediate surge of gratification that sweeps through your body when he does and it’s so shamefully fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>overwhelming </span>
  </em>
  <span>that it feels like all the muscles in your abdomen have melted, </span>
  <em>
    <span>liquefied, </span>
  </em>
  <span>dissolved into the sudden burst of heat that’s searing through your entire nervous system. You reach out for him on instinct, your palms flat against the crisp lines of his stupid imacculately-pressed shirt— you mean to push him away, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you do, but it’s like something finally </span>
  <em>
    <span>snaps </span>
  </em>
  <span>inside you and instead you’re winding his tie around your hand and yanking him down and </span>
  <em>
    <span>closer </span>
  </em>
  <span>and you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>ignoring </span>
  </em>
  <span>every single voice in your head that’s telling you to fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop—</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Beck deepens the kiss, scrapes his teeth over your bottom lip and follows with his tongue, and you </span>
  <em>
    <span>let him, </span>
  </em>
  <span>pushing yourself up on your toes and dragging him closer by his collar, so breathless you’re nearly dizzy from it</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s in direct contrast with everything you thought you knew— about him, about </span>
  <em>
    <span>yourself, </span>
  </em>
  <span>about the </span>
  <em>
    <span>six fucking years’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>worth of frustration and rivalry and apparently the suppressed specifics of your mutual attraction, and it shakes you to your core. Beck pushes you backwards, and you don’t argue or fight it or even </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to-- he pins you against the counter behind you hard enough that the blunted edge of it digs bruises into the small of your back, and you </span>
  <em>
    <span>let it happen. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Your mouth breaks away from his with a shallow, breathless, </span>
  <em>
    <span>needy</span>
  </em>
  <span> sound that you’re pretty sure you’ve never made before, and the rumble of his answering laugh sparks some sort of friction deep down inside of you that you don’t want to even </span>
  <em>
    <span>think </span>
  </em>
  <span>about, like he’s lit a fuse that you hadn’t even known was there</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The pause is heavy-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>expectant-- </span>
  </em>
  <span>and there’s shock and disbelief and the persistent ache of something you refuse to label as desire all crowding your throat simultaneously, but the only thing that actually breaks into sound is—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your voice, for some impossible reason, is curiously short of anything even resembling malice, empty of anger or fury or any of the perfectly reasonable, perfectly </span>
  <em>
    <span>justified </span>
  </em>
  <span>things you </span>
  <em>
    <span>should </span>
  </em>
  <span>be feeling; you’ve still got a handful of his shirt collar and you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>not letting go </span>
  </em>
  <span>even though you’re pretty sure that’s what you should do— what you should </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to do. Beck’s got you caged in against the counter with his hands braced on either side of your body and the way that he’s looking at you isn’t like anything you’ve ever seen from him before. It’s like he’s finally given up on any remaining pretense of decency and all that’s left is the person that you clocked him as from the very beginning— somebody who’s selfish and egocentric and actually, genuinely </span>
  <em>
    <span>cruel </span>
  </em>
  <span>in a way that really, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>should bother you but really, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>doesn’t, for reasons you don’t want to even </span>
  <em>
    <span>begin </span>
  </em>
  <span>to address. The way he’s looking at you now isn’t good or nice or </span>
  <em>
    <span>appropriate </span>
  </em>
  <span>but you think— you </span>
  <em>
    <span>know— </span>
  </em>
  <span>that it’s the same way you’re looking at him. Like you </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>him, or like you want to fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt </span>
  </em>
  <span>him, or— Both. All. </span>
</p><p><span>“Don’t act so surprised,” he says finally. There’s this new dark edge to his voice that you think must always be there, disguised under all of his manufactured, deceptively harmless brand of charisma, and you almost wish you were capable of ignoring the way that it makes your entire fucking body </span><em><span>tremble, </span></em><span>your chest winding tight around anticipation as you pull in a shallow breath. He’s dragged you back by your collar before you can bother to find something to say in response, and you rationalize that you should be angry at that— you should be </span><em><span>furious, </span></em><span>actually, </span><em><span>fuming, </span></em><span>and maybe you are, but you can’t seem to separate the feeling from everything else, your body flush with heat and burning up like a fever. Beck is more aggressive this time, crowding you back against the edge of the counter, his hand at the base of your skull and his fingers threading through your hair, pulling hard enough that the bittersweet prickle of pain coursing through your scalp aches like electricity, wrenches some needy, desperate, fucking </span><em><span>embarrassing </span></em><span>noise from the back of your throat that he takes for himself just like he takes fucking </span><em><span>everything.</span></em><span> You bite at his bottom lip in response, rough and sharp like you’ve got something to prove, and the low, clipped growl that it wrenches from him is satisfying in ways that it probably shouldn’t be. His knuckles graze the low of your abdomen and you jerk and tense up like you’ve been struck with a live wire, your heart leaping up into your mouth, sick with satisfaction and shame as his palm slides up under the edge of your blouse. This is happening, you think distantly, this is </span><em><span>real, </span></em><span>his hands on your bare skin, and they’re rougher and warmer and so much fucking bigger</span> <span>than you’d thought they would be— not that you’d </span><em><span>ever </span></em><span>thought about it, </span><em><span>god, </span></em><span>not like it had ever crossed your mind until here and now, when it’s seemingly the only thing left in your head.</span></p><p>
  <span>“Beck,” you manage to choke out, tipping your head back, digging your fingernails into his forearm hard enough for his breath to come out as a hiss against your bared throat as his hand moves up across your ribcage, over the smooth satin outline of your bra.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up,” Beck says, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mockingly, </span>
  </em>
  <span>his voice sickly-sweet and thick with that overconfidence that you fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>despise</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “You’re so much prettier when you’re not talking, honey.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, fuck you,” you snap, irritation prickling sharp and alive in the pit of your stomach in the few seconds before you kiss him again, if only just to fucking shut him up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lifts you up and onto the counter, suddenly and </span>
  <em>
    <span>easily</span>
  </em>
  <span>, like you weigh </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Your heartbeat skips and your breathing stutters and you find yourself unable to outpace the way your body is responding</span>
  <em>
    <span>, </span>
  </em>
  <span>your chest tight and constricted with the weight of anticipation and your skin burning up so hypersensitive that you imagine you must be aware of every inch of yourself and every inch of him—all the places your bodies are touching, all the places they aren’t and the places you </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>them to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck are you doing,” you mutter against his throat, aiming for indignation and missing terribly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Guess,” he replies, heavy with sarcasm and self-satisfaction, and then his hand is on your knee, pausing for the barest of seconds before moving up, up, </span>
  <em>
    <span>up, </span>
  </em>
  <span>brushing against the inside of your thigh, hiking up your skirt. The sudden, brief contact has you acutely aware of just how wound-up you are; the burn of your muscles and the ache between your thighs and the fragile, trembling pulse of want in your lower belly. Your heart is beating too fast. You’re fucking</span>
  <em>
    <span> dizzy. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You imagine your temperature right now must be </span>
  <em>
    <span>skyrocketing, </span>
  </em>
  <span>your pulse thrumming like hummingbird wings in the hollow of your throat-- you imagine that Beck, with his hands on your bare skin, must be able to feel it, radiating off of you, your body heat and the sheer force of your desire burning a hole straight through your chest--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sound you make when he finally touches you, even through the soaked front of your underwear, is breathless and high-pitched and completely accidental, a gasp or a whine or some other awful, incriminating noise that somehow breaks free from deep in your chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beck bares his teeth in a not-smile. “Oh, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>this,” he practically fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>purrs, </span>
  </em>
  <span>voice dripping satifaction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck you.” Your voice wavers. You know he’s right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m about to.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If there was anything left of you you would have remembered to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>embarrassed </span>
  </em>
  <span>by the rush of heat that lances through the liquid muscles of your abdomen when he says that. But there’s not-- and you </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t-- </span>
  </em>
  <span>and then he’s already unfastening the clasp of his belt, sleek and expensive and probably fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>Armani,</span>
  </em>
  <span> god, what an </span>
  <em>
    <span>asshole</span>
  </em>
  <span>; he’s winding the thin strip of black leather into a neat little spiral and setting it on the counter, working open the button of his pants as you watch, mouth curiously dry and muscles tense, tight,</span>
  <em>
    <span> trembling</span>
  </em>
  <span> with anticipation. He shoves them down to his knees; his boxers, too, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think, a little desperately, this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>real </span>
  </em>
  <span>and this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>now </span>
  </em>
  <span>and this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>happening, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you are offically beyond the point of turning back, so far past the time when you could have walked away from this--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beck closes that last little bit of space between the two of you. He pulls you by your hips to the very edge of the counter and rucks up your skirt and your breath leaves your body like it’s been punched right out of your chest. He’s not saying anything-- he’s barely fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>breathing-- </span>
  </em>
  <span>and for a second you wonder how long he must have wanted this. How </span>
  <em>
    <span>badly </span>
  </em>
  <span>he wants it, now, how fucking wound up he is, if maybe you’ve finally been able to get to him like he gets to you. He grinds into you and that’s half an answer because there’s pressure, </span>
  <em>
    <span>god, </span>
  </em>
  <span>finally, the weight of his cock pressed up between your thighs, and then you can’t find it in you to focus on anything other than how </span>
  <em>
    <span>good </span>
  </em>
  <span>it feels, that friction and his hand on the back of your neck, forcing you to look at him as he yanks your panties to the side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a moment of silence and tension and wordless defiance as you stare up at him, waiting, and then he angles himself, he pushes forwards and his cock slides inside and something fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>breaks </span>
  </em>
  <span>deep down inside of you, the last remaining shreds of your composure or your fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>dignity</span>
  </em>
  <span> crumbling into nothing. He bottoms out and you bite down on your  lip hard enough to draw blood, taste iron and rust as you struggle to cage back the moan rising in the back of your throat. He’s big-- bigger than he has any fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>right </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be; fuck, it isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>fair</span>
  </em>
  <span>, big enough that it </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurts </span>
  </em>
  <span>exactly the way you want it to, a low pulsing bittersweet </span>
  <em>
    <span>ache </span>
  </em>
  <span>between your thighs, a heat rising through your body that has you so high-strung you’re nearly fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>shaking.</span>
  </em>
  <span> You reach out for him, find his shoulder, your nails digging in hard enough that it must be painful-- if it is, he doesn’t make any sort of sound, the only indication that he feels any of this at all is just the air rushing out of him, all at once, like there’s some invisible pressure on his chest that’s keeping him from breathing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Beck grits out, </span>
  <em>
    <span>real </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>raw </span>
  </em>
  <span>and surprisingly, </span>
  <em>
    <span>uncomfortably </span>
  </em>
  <span>intimate, and then he starts to move and any thoughts you might have had about his momentary loss of self control blank out into nothing but white noise. He’s not gentle and you don’t expect or even want him to be-- his pace is harsh and unforgiving and maybe even a little bit </span>
  <em>
    <span>cruel </span>
  </em>
  <span>but it sates something angry and violent inside of you that you hadn’t even realized was there, some need that you’d suppressed for too long thrumming through your veins like a poison, leeching up to the surface like a full-body bruise. The sharp angles of his hips bite into the insides of your thighs hard enough that it must be leaving marks and it breaks something from you that might have been a moan, some shaky and instinctive sound that catches hard in the back of your throat. Beck kisses you again and he swallows that sound like he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>starving, </span>
  </em>
  <span>like it fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>belongs </span>
  </em>
  <span>to him, fists one hand in your hair and pulls hard enough to get your mouth to open up in a shattered, breathless gasp under his and fucking takes that, too. It’s like he’s in your head-- like he knows exactly what you want, like he’s trying to pull something out of you or trying to strip you of something; your pride, maybe, or some sound or feeling or something else entirely, something only he knows about. His mouth moves down the line of your jaw to your throat, over your jugular, he bites down hard enough that it nearly breaks out another sound from where it’s been half-stifled and trapped in your throat and you know somehow that he’s left a mark, something to cover up and conceal and </span>
  <em>
    <span>hide </span>
  </em>
  <span>when this is all over--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Beck,” you say, and you want to sound fucking irritated but somehow it comes out fragile and raw like you’re begging and you think that maybe you might be, because his cock brushes against some impossibly sensitive spot inside of you and whatever you were going to say after that completely fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>whites out, </span>
  </em>
  <span>your head gone all blank and embarrassingly empty. Beck makes a sound that might have been a laugh, breathless and low and fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>mean </span>
  </em>
  <span>in a way that shouldn’t get you this fucking worked up but of course it does-- god, there must be something inside of both of you that’s just wired wrong. He lets go of your hair and he slides his hands up the backs of your thighs, he digs his fingers in and hooks your knees up over his arms to lift your hips higher and then, oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span> whatever the hell you were thinking in the first place is </span>
  <em>
    <span>gone, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you can’t keep track of it, not now, not like this--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You don’t have any leverage, with his arm hooked under the crook of your knee and his other hand at your waist, pulling you into him with every thrust until you can’t do much more than fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>take </span>
  </em>
  <span>it, and you know with some deep and unwavering certainty that he’s doing it on purpose-- taking as much control as he can get you to give up. And fuck him for that, honestly, fuck him and fuck how good it feels and fuck the way that his name spills out of your chest all high-pitched and shattered even as desperately as you try to fucking hold onto it, your body </span>
  <em>
    <span>trembling, </span>
  </em>
  <span>every single fibre of your muscles high-strung and overwhelmed and balancing on the paper-thin edge of falling apart</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
  <span>There’s a heat rising up in your body alongside something else, something sharp and angry and furious and </span>
  <em>
    <span>familiar, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and before you can consider the merits of what you’re about to do-- before you really even know what you’re doing at all-- you lean into him and press your mouth to the exposed curve of his neck above his shirt collar and </span>
  <em>
    <span>bite, </span>
  </em>
  <span>hard. Beck jerks and his cock </span>
  <em>
    <span>twitches </span>
  </em>
  <span>inside of you enough that you can fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>it, his breathing catches and his guard </span>
  <em>
    <span>crumbles </span>
  </em>
  <span>and the noise he makes is rough and jagged-edged enough for you to think you may have finally worked a thread loose from him and if you pull it hard enough he might unravel. He only pauses for a fraction of a second but it’s long enough for you to reach out and pull on his shirt, dragging him in for another kiss-- it was just a second, though, just a moment where you’re in control, because he’s fucking you again and there’s a tremble beginning in your muscles that you can recognize, a pressure building somewhere inside of you that feels immediate and unavoidable. Like everything else between the two of you, you know he’s going to win this, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And maybe Beck can tell you’re fighting it and maybe he knows you don’t want to give him the satisfaction, just like he always fucking knows everything, because he shifts just enough to make space between your bodies and he reaches down until he can get his fingers against your clit and everything is suddenly too much for you to handle. You whisper something that might have been </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck you </span>
  </em>
  <span>but also might have been nothing, some wordless overstimulated sound as your head tips back and your jaw goes slack and </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh, fuck, yes--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, honey,” Beck says, mocking and sharp-edged and </span>
  <em>
    <span>mean.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And then everything goes hot and white and you come so hard you’re half-certain you forget your own name. You don’t make a single sound, but you don’t have to-- you’re sure he can feel it, inside of you, the moment that you trip-stumble off the edge of your orgasm, your body trembling and your muscles clenching down around him so hard that it might even be painful. Beck makes a low, harsh noise and digs his fingers into your skin hard enough to leave ten pinpoint bruises mapped across both of your thighs, he groans out something that sounds like </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes </span>
  </em>
  <span>in a voice thick with satisfaction and some other thing that you still can’t identify.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s over so fucking quickly after that, his hips tensing and then easing in the cradle of your thighs, the breath rushing out of him and his eyes fluttering closed. The silence that falls is heavy and oppressive, the air sticky with sex and sweat-- it’s going to be a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>mess, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you realize, in both the literal and figurative sense, but the reality of it hasn’t quite registered yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your muscles are trembling, still, and your breathing is rapid and shallow. Beck finally opens his eyes and he looks at you for a long moment that should probably feel awkward but doesn’t-- neither of you are making any effort at creating some bastardized version of intimacy, which you’re grateful for. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You open your mouth to say something--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bell rings in the hallway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beck’s eyes flash, like it’s finally occurring to him where and when and </span>
  <em>
    <span>who </span>
  </em>
  <span>you are, and he cuts you off before you can speak--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>(For once, that doesn't piss you off. It’s what you were going to say, anyway.)</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
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